The Cimmerian Legacy
by Neuronerd
Summary: The final installment to "Out of the Darkness" and "Evolution Revolution." The war is over, but there are still things worth fighting for.
1. Flesh for Fantasy

**A/N: So I'm thinking that this will probably be one of the last Heroes stories I will write. It's been almost 2 years since the show last aired and maybe it is time for me to accept it and move on. People don't mourn the loss of family members quite as long as I have. However, I do feel compelled to finish the slaveverse series I started- perhaps as a last goodbye to the characters I have grown to love. Parting is such sweet sorrow… **

**Chapter 1- Flesh for Fantasy**

Peter sat alone in the dark bar listlessly twirling the little red straw in his Jack & Coke he was forced to buy as a condition of gaining entry into the sleazy establishment. It was a superficial formality for him because he had no hope of getting drunk although at that moment he very much wished he could. Furthermore, he was infinitely glad that he stuck to his guns and refused to bring Claire along to such a place. Noah would have his head on a stake if he brought his precious Claire-Bear even though she was the one who tipped him off. The whole place smelled like piss, beer, and other things he cared not to guess the origin of and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was partially due to the stale smoke of cheap cigarettes which hung heavy in the air like a toxic blanket, but it really had more to do with not seeing the very thing he came for. He heard rumors about it but he just couldn't make himself believe it and thus he had to see it for himself, but he was seriously regretting his resolve to satiate his curiosity. Now that he was there, he felt mildly sick and as dirty as the sticky floor his shoes stuck to.

The postwar years had not been as productive as he hoped and in truth, he had to wonder if specials were really any better off than they had been as slaves. Even though he was an idealist, at his heart even he had his doubts that Nathan with all his gravitas could sway the entire nation's well entrenched beliefs that those with abilities were anything but foreign, dangerous, and less than. Of course as with anything in life, he realized that where you were depended largely on where you began and just as before, his family name put him way ahead of others in the race. Life for him hadn't been so bad after the war but that was because he was connected in ways that put him in contact with those who were in power and had influence. He had a good job with the government as a medical specialist working on a team that was a good mix of those with abilities and those without who all functioned on the premise of mutual respect. For him, Nathan's vision of a harmonious society had been realized, but not everyone was so lucky and many struggled just to survive. The current situation was proof positive of the reality that many faced.

Peter's eyes helplessly flickered to the sight a few feet away although he didn't want to see- or even believe- it was real. It was like passing the scene of a gruesome car accident knowing he would be scarred by what he witnessed, but he was unable to look away entirely. In the soft smoky haze of the stage lights, the lithe body gracefully and slowly moved to the haunting melody of the music and it was disorientingly beautiful in all its improbability. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the tight muscles of the thigh, long and lean and the gentle curve of a hip, the taught skin slightly yellowed by the stage lights. The toned muscles of the arms and back flexed slightly as the dancer intermittently bent to retrieve the sweaty, crumpled bills hastily thrown onto the stage in appreciation for the performance.

"_You move like I want to. To see like your eyes do…" _

The dancer made the rounds on the stage, slowly and seductively picking and choosing those in the crowd irrespective of gender who might offer the biggest tip in exchange for what they mistakenly believed to be lust and desire solely for them. A quick pass of the tongue over full lips, shy smiles, smoldering eyes that spoke of a willingness to fulfill every fantasy…

"_We are downstairs where no one can see new life break away. Tonight I feel like more." _

The dancer moved from the stage and entertained the crowd one by one, pausing when dead presidents made their way into willing hands, but disapproving looks were doled out to those who attempted to touch. It was an option, but that was a separate fee and there were those more than willing to pay for the privilege as Peter well knew. It was perhaps the most oddly non-sexual completely seductive act Peter had ever seen. Somehow the dancer was able to coax the patrons into giving up their hard earned money not by the usual lewd grinding that most resorted to, but by creating an almost coy sense of unobtainability that only made them want more.

"_You breathed, then you stopped. I breathed and dried you off. Tonight I feel…feel like more."_

It was unfortunate that every time the singer said "more" it sounded like "murder" but it was fitting enough. As Peter sat there swallowing his disgust, he wondered if it was some sick joke that the crowd didn't get and he was glad more than ever that Maria was dead and didn't have to watch Sylar resort to the life he had just to get by. But through it all, damn it if he wasn't absolutely mesmerized by his show. Judging by the wad of cash in his hands as he left the stage wearing little more than he was the day he brought him home from Tipton's tent, he certainly knew how to work a crowd and if anything he got better at picking out easy prey.

"Hot damn!" The DJ catcalled. Sylar took a final bow with a menacingly sarcastic smirk on his lips as though he were mocking his very benefactors for lining his proverbial pockets. It was as if he was getting the last laugh by making them all think he was the one at a disadvantage, but then again, it was a rouse that had worked perfectly well for him before. "Let's hear it one last time for our resident Dark Angel, Gabriel!"

Peter halfheartedly clapped along with everyone else's enthusiastic support although he couldn't have been more disingenuous. All he could think about was watching Sylar's body move so languidly and his dark, seductive eyes- a body that he had known all too well inside and out and eyes that had seen so much more than any of the patrons could have guessed. All Peter could see when he closed his eyes was Sylar on the autopsy table, emptied and dead, and yet he survived and used his assets to cast a seductive spell on the crowd. Did the pretty bachelorette in the front row know she was looking into the eyes of a killer as he carefully yet flirtatiously removed the large denomination bill from between her breasts with his teeth? Did any of them realize how manipulative he was? As Peter looked around the establishment he sighed and wondered how many of them cheered for his death only a few years before. Some of them may have even made the pilgrimage to Washington to see his body on display, but as it stood not one of them seemed to realize who he really was as if the staggering coincidence of a guy looking exactly like the notorious terrorist with the same name wasn't a giant red flag. To be fair, he had let his hair grow out a little and Peter wasn't sure if it was just the stage lights or if it was a sign of the life he led since the war, but he seemed somewhat leaner than he remembered if that was possible. Then again, all that gyrating was probably a good workout.

"You Burke?" A bored looking bouncer leaned in and shouted over the blaring music that pacified the crowd until the next act took the stage. After Peter nodded in the affirmative, he glanced at his clipboard and motioned for him to grab his watered down drink and follow. Peter didn't use his real name out of precaution for both his own job and for the sake of Nathan. It just wouldn't do having a government employee trolling seedy backwoods strip joints, but something in the jaded reaction of the bouncer told him that it was common practice to use a pseudonym and he didn't believe it was his real name for a second. When they passed into the back of the establishment where it was quieter, the burly man looked at his clipboard again and raised his eyebrows. "Whale."

Peter jumped slightly when a half-naked woman brushed passed him to join the other men and women milling around in various stages of undress and he tried not to stare, but a part of him wondered if Sylar was among them. "Excuse me?" He asked pulling his attention to the man who was completely unfazed by his surroundings.

"Whale." The bouncer sighed. "Big spender. We don't get many of your kind down this way." There was something in the nervous man's demeanor that told him he was also probably a newbie to the dark underworld of flesh for hire.

"Oh." Peter nodded. "I'm…" he stammered to think of an explanation of why he would appear out of the blue and drop two grand on a male stripper. It really wasn't his usual thing and he didn't know how to explain his actions.

The bouncer held up his hand to stop him. "I don't care." He flatly announced. "I don't want to know. My job is hard enough as it is."

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets uncomfortably. "I imagine so." Peter wasn't as naïve as everyone assumed he was. When he was a paramedic he responded to more than his fair share of calls for prostitutes that had been attacked by Johns to know that the life Sylar was steeped in was inherently dangerous.

"Here's the rules." He rattled off as though he was brokering a back alley dope deal. "It's your dime, you can pretty much do what you want. But if it involves drawing blood in any way, whipping, piercing, anything like that, you have to check with him. He's expensive because he'll do all kinds of shit nobody else will, but if you're into really kinky experimental stuff cough up another g and he's all yours no questions asked."

Peter tried his best not to look horrified at the implication that he had red hot brands waiting in his hotel room to use on Sylar. He slowly shook his head and mumbled, "No, I think I'm good."

The bouncer nodded knowingly. Either the buyer wasn't going to admit to being into kink or he just didn't want to pay because everyone was a closet freak in his estimation. "You know he's a special, right?"

"That's fine." He shrugged noncommittally. Of course he knew what Sylar was capable of, both good and bad.

"Full disclosure, dude. Some people don't like freaks and others are _really_ into it. Anyway, he knows that whatever you say goes and that includes his powers. He's yours until 6am and you bring him back here. If you want to keep him longer, the rate doubles."

"Got it." He grumbled. Not only was it an uncomfortable situation charged by sexual innuendo, it was barely differentiated from the slave system in his mind. He was essentially buying Sylar to do whatever he dictated from the most sadistic acts to forcing him to clean his fish tank in a French maid costume. It was humiliating and it wasn't right even if Sylar was somehow complicit in his own captivity. It was incomprehensible to him. Hadn't Sylar had enough of other's abusive tendencies? Wasn't this the very thing he fought so hard against and sacrificed for? He looked up sharply when a dark figure casually clad in street clothes strolled up, but when he looked at Sylar only empty, expressionless eyes stared back and it reminded him of the waning days of the war when he was operating on momentum alone and hopelessly resigned to his fate.

"Gabriel, Mr. Burke." The bouncer introduced. "You are now on the clock. Be home by 6, sweetheart."

Peter watched Sylar's face closely for any sign of reaction: anger, relief, anything, but he was unreadable. It seemed that the only thing that remained of Gabriel was his name. In that moment he feared that all of Maria's hopes and dreams were buried with her and he felt as though it was all his fault. He had come too late.

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**P.S. The song Sylar is fleecing the crowd to is "Digital Bath" by the Deftones. Give it a listen and tell me you can't see it fitting his twisted brand of sensuality. **


	2. Back in the Saddle

**A/N: Thank you to all who have returned for the last hurrah of this franchise. I do appreciate your support and will try my best to keep this story updated although I don't have as much time as I used to. **

**Chapter 2- Back in the Saddle**

It was a tense ride back to Peter's hotel room in a neighboring city and he gripped the steering wheel tightly. He felt guilty although he had no reason to and Sylar's stubborn silence wasn't helping matters. Although he tried to act nonchalant, Peter could tell he was nervous and probably wondering just what the hell he was up to. True he did pay for the company of another human being, but as far as he knew so long as it didn't involve illicit sex it wasn't illegal. He swallowed hard and reminded himself that as long as they both kept their pants up everything would be ok.

Sylar gazed out the passenger window and watched the lights of the small town pass until they were almost entirely enveloped in the darkness of the only country road that ran through town. It wasn't all that unusual for buyers to take dates out of town under the assumption of anonymity or perhaps to remove themselves from the scene of the crime as it were. It was a dangerous prospect for most, but he at least had the comfort of knowing that if things with south he could well defend himself and find another way to get home if he had to even if he had to walk. He could only imagine how nerve-wracking it must have been for those who were at the mercy of their buyers and he heard enough stories of deals gone bad, but it wasn't like he hadn't experienced the brutality of others firsthand before the war to know what people were capable of if there was no accountability for their actions.

As the landscape whizzed by in a murky blur, he spotted a giant flag waving gently in the night breeze proudly hoisted at the entrance of a farmhouse. The single white star stood out in contrast to the blue background it was emblazoned on. Texas wasn't his idea of paradise, but it was a place where people minded their own business and didn't ask questions- especially being as close to the border as they were what with all the drug cartel kidnapping and violence. It was the Wild West all over again but it suited his needs if not his desires. He was surprised to see Peter of all people, but then again not so much. He was the only one who at least attempted to keep tabs on him after the war while everyone else went on with their lives as though he didn't matter. He hoped things would change and that the others would perhaps give him a chance, but old habits died hard and he was as alone as he ever was. Maybe the others chalked it up to being busy, or not wanting to disturb him or whatever else they could think of to get them off the hook, but he always knew the score. No matter what, he would always be the enemy and so he cut his losses and left the cramped cabin Peter had provided to try and make a life for himself. Somehow against his better judgment he ended up in Texas getting by on his sly charm, wit, good looks, and complete lack of self-regard.

His life had not been an easy one by any means, and his job infinitely harder although he had it much better than most who made money the way he did. No matter what perverse fetish was inflicted on him, he could go home at the end of the night and spend an inordinate amount of time in his steaming hot shower washing the dried blood and mess from his freshly healed skin, although he never really felt entirely clean. He never got comfortable with people touching him and now it was evermore the case since he had come to equate proximity with dread, but he was able to make a very decent living if he forced himself to block it all out. Some nights he could clear $3,000 or even $5,000 if he worked a double and took on "dates" that were especially kinky since he charged more for exotic jobs that no one else would take. There was a part of him that rationalized it all as trading his services for cash, a pragmatic use of his talents and abilities in a goods-for-service economic exchange, but there always was a part of him that felt dirty and profoundly saddened at just how far he'd fallen in his quest for a normal existence. This wasn't what he envisioned as his grand reward in exchange for his very public death.

"Jesus," Peter muttered looking off to his left at a huge expanse of land that had been fenced in, "they really do have longhorn cows down here."

Sylar turned to give him a dubious look. "Steer." He calmly corrected. "Cows give milk. Those will eventually be steaks." It bothered him that Peter would show up out of the blue and pay for him when he could have just as easily contacted him by other means. It made him wonder about his true nature and his mind spun with potential trajectories of the night that lie ahead. He was reasonably certain that Peter held no particular dark fantasies for him to act out, but it did feel like an attempt at humiliation and he struggled to contain the resentment that churned inside him.

"Ok." He nervously conceded. It was all the same to him but he could tell the small talk was only serving to irritate his passenger. He cautiously probed Sylar's mind for a clue on how to proceed and found that his silent partner was intensely curious about his intentions, but was determined to remain stubbornly nonverbal just to watch him squirm. "So I know I haven't talked to you in awhile," he quietly ventured, "how are you?" It was an honest question, but even he realized how lame it sounded given the context of the situation.

Sylar stared at him and even in the darkness it felt like his eyes were boring holes into him. "Really?" He asked incredulously. "You rent me for the night from some redneck flesh shop and you wonder how I am?" He nearly laughed. "But whatever, Peter, it's your money. If you want to spend it playing 20 questions, that's up to you."

"Yes," he replied emphatically, "I do." He didn't want to power trip all over his onetime comrade, but he did have a certain advantage over the elusive ex-killer via verbal contract. "I honestly want to know how you've been. I didn't come all the way down here to look at cows." He paused and quickly corrected himself. "Steer, whatever."

After some miles in solitude, Sylar got up the courage to grumble, "You see it." He didn't want to bare his soul to anyone much less Peter, but he was a man of his word and he had a job to do. In reality it wasn't as if his occupation was often palatable anyway. "You might not think it's much, but it's honest money." It was Peter's turn to give him a disbelieving look. "Well, sort of. Not all of us got the fairytale ending you did." The bitter sting of regret in his voice could not be overlooked. He worked so hard to try and scratch out a legit living, but the reality was he didn't have a college degree, not much of a work history, and he was a special. That made his prospects of employment very dim. It was very tempting to just go back to his old ways and he never completely ruled it out as an option, but he wanted to be able to go to sleep at night knowing he tried his hardest to make an honest living first. Life for him was no doubt hard, and the nagging hunger only made it worse, but he was determined to put every ounce of his energy into trying to stay on the straight and narrow until the time came when he had no other choice but to deviate. He was sure that time would indeed come, he just wasn't sure when and he wanted to delay it as long as possible so he could enjoy what precious little freedom he earned.

"I'm not here to judge you, man." Peter softly reassured him as he sped down the dark highway far from Sylar's reality- if even for just a little while. "I mean, I know you said you were going to go legit after the war, but…" He wasn't really sure how he could express his concern without condemning him like he said he wasn't.

"But you had your doubts." He lightly summed. "I could use my abilities to go back to who and what I was, and maybe you don't think that people paying me to take off my clothes is respectable, but it's a good living and I don't have to kill anyone to do it. That's more than I can say for my last gig."

He certainly couldn't argue with his logic. During the war, Sylar took his wages in grief and blood. "It's not about you taking your clothes off," he patiently corrected, "it's this…" he paused to gesture between them, "_arrangement_ that worries me. It's the fact that people can buy you and do whatever they want. Doesn't that remind you of anything?" He asked desperately.

"Vaguely." Sylar replied in a warily low voice. "But at least I'm getting paid this time. In case you haven't looked down from your ivory tower in awhile, jobs aren't really available for specials. We have to take what we can get if we want to survive." The economy had been tough after the war and although it was technically illegal to discriminate on the basis of having an ability, the practice was rampant and everyone knew it. Thanks to the old registry that was now available online, it was pretty easy to figure out who was a special without even asking. You were only 1 Google search away from being unemployed and homeless. The only thing that helped him was never being registered in the first place and paying for everything in cash, but he was still living under the perpetual fear of being discovered so he had to lay as low as he could.

"As I said, Sylar, I'm not looking down my nose at you. I'm just…" he sighed in exasperation because he knew trying to make him understand the gravity of what he was feeling was almost a lost cause, "it just isn't right, not after what you did. You deserve better."

Sylar scoffed and returned his gaze to the surrounding darkness. "Thanks for your sympathy vote." It sounded sarcastic, but only mildly so because deep down it really did mean something to him that if no one else appreciated his role in ending the war, Peter did. Looking back at it all, it seemed that everyone won in some measure except for him who perhaps gave the most.

Peter relaxed his grip on the wheel slightly as he started to feel more comfortable. He had spent more time than anyone with Sylar throughout the war during some of his darkest moments and at least a tenuous thread of that bond still existed between them, he could feel it even if Sylar wasn't ready or willing to openly acknowledge it. Still, for all that he had learned about the former watchmaker, he still remained a tightly bound mystery and it was this unknown factor that made Peter tread carefully. He laughed lightly and commented, "I guess this is what Nathan was talking about when he said I was stubborn. I get it now."

"Do you?" He asked in a bored tone. He didn't really know where Peter was going with it, but he didn't particularly care either. He just wanted the night to end posthaste and it made him wonder if he could still locate Hiro and pay him to speed things up a bit.

"I do." He chuckled at the sudden epiphany. "I had so many options available to me, but I was so determined to do things all by myself without anyone's help that I made things infinitely harder. I almost worked myself to death just to prove to everyone that I could take care of myself. You are just too afraid to ask anyone for help that you are willing to let people do whatever they want to you as long as they give you money."

"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Freud?" He hissed in irritation. "Unlike you, I never had anyone to coddle me or offer me a golden parachute. I'm doing ok for myself."

"Are you?" Peter challenged. "How much of your ability to withstand the punishment of what you do is directly related to your abilities and how much of it is your own masochistic need for the world to hate you?" He knew he was treading on thin ice, but he also knew that Sylar was more or less a captive audience. "You don't know how to function unless you're the bad guy." He paused to glance at his partner in the dim glow of the dashboard lights and something in his head clicked. "You…you think you deserve it, don't you?" Sylar's only answer was to abruptly turn away and Peter felt a distinct chill settle between them. The conversation was no longer about scratching out a living and it filled Peter with a profound sadness and guilt that took his breath away. He felt compelled to tell him how wrong he was, to tell him that he didn't owe anyone anything. After all that they had done and been through, his past sins seemed so remote as to not even matter in light of how hard he was trying to change. But it seemed that it wasn't everyone else who was looking back, it was him and he couldn't let go. "Sylar, I…"

"Save your bleeding heart platitudes, Peter, they are useless to me." He growled through his teeth. "The war is over and we have to do the best we can in our new realities. For the next 7 hours you get to do what you want and then go back to Washington to do whatever you do and feel better about making your attempt to rehabilitate me, but you are wasting your time."

Rather than be insulted, Peter sort of understood his partner's discomfort with the status quo. Sylar saw him as part of the problem rather than the solution and he couldn't entirely disagree. A lot of promises were made to specials to better their lives and almost all were broken, partially fulfilled, or thrown by the wayside. "I never consider talking to you a waste of my time." He said quietly as the lights of the next city filled the car with a warm glow. "And I know you are all about choices so let me offer you one. Let me make some phone calls and see what I can do to get you a job with the Chimera project."

"Washington has too many bad memories for me." He dissented. He just couldn't face being in the same buildings where he was summarily condemned and executed on a daily basis. "Besides, I'm supposed to be dead, remember?"

"The project has field operatives, you wouldn't have to work in DC like I do." He pulled into the driveway of a swank hotel and motioned to Sylar that it was his destination. In a resigned yet still hopeful tone he stated, "Get room service, sleep, do what you want. Just tell me you'll think about it?"

Sylar looked perplexed as the valet opened the car door and patiently waited for him to exit. "Aren't you coming?" On a few rare occasions some of his clients hired him not to use as a living blank screen on which to project their darkest fantasies, but to fulfill other roles just as difficult for him to perform such as playing therapist for dysfunctional relationships and posing as the boyfriend of single women who were being hounded by their families or by married women to make their husbands jealous. On one such "date" the husband managed to surprise him and as he ran across the field of the vast ranch she lived on in an effort to escape her furious, gun wielding paramour, he discovered a very unfortunate fact of physics: bullets can travel faster than sound at a distance and he had been hit before he even heard the gun go off. That little incident ran his customer an additional fee which she never paid, but never had someone rented him just to give him the night off in privacy. There had to be some trick, he just couldn't figure out what Peter's game was.

"Nah," he yawned, "I'm staying up the road a little. Be ready to go by 5:30. I'll be back to pick you up." For just a split second, it felt like years before when he was playing chauffer to Jessup's farm and promising to be back to pick him up so he wouldn't have to spend one more minute at the farm than he had to. At least this time the accommodations were better and he didn't have to fear for his own safety from Emily's talons- Sylar had seen to that.

Sylar was unsure how to react to Peter's kind gesture, he never was particularly good at showing gratitude even when he felt it, so he dealt with the situation the only way he knew how. He glanced at him and flatly said, "I'm ordering steak and lobster with a bottle of Champaign, you know that, right?"

Peter grinned widely because he instantly recognized Syalr's brand of appreciation. He used shades of sarcasm the way most people changed the tone of their voice to communicate. "Are you going to take a bath in it? Because you know as well as I do it would be the same as drinking Seltzer water for you."

"Maybe I will." He replied contemptuously. "In which case I'll need a few bottles."

"Enjoy." Peter replied humorlessly. It would be like Sylar to run up the tab out of spite, but he was too tired to argue with him. He had flown in that afternoon and driven for hours just to get there and he very much looked forward to getting some much needed shuteye himself. He hadn't been that bushed since the days when he was an on call medic during the war.

Sylar watched Peter drive away before turning to walk away from the entrance of the hotel. He had no intention of taking Peter's charity and he wasn't going to be there at the appointed time to get picked up. In fact, he wasn't going to return to the seedy little bar ever. Somewhere in the miles between the two towns, he came to the realization that it was a life he didn't want to live anymore and Peter acted as a catalyst of his old life to spring him out of his rut. Sure it paid the bills, but there was always something inside of him that knew Peter was right: he deserved better. Maybe he didn't exactly deserve the life that Peter had, but in his experience all of the suffering he allowed to be inflicted on himself did nothing to lessen the ever present guilt he couldn't shake for everything he had done in his life and it sure as hell didn't do anything to erase the memories and scars he still carried from the war. If anything, it only added to his torment to know how many people were far more depraved and took pleasure in the suffering of others than he ever did. He now knew that there were bigger monsters in the world than him and it was strangely comforting.

Still, he didn't know that taking Peter's job offer was the best idea either. He had been entangled in various incarnations of the Company before- enough to know that it never ended well for him. What job could he possibly get anyway? Unless he was stuffed into a tiny basement office repairing the watches of politicos full time, it only left one possibility: an enforcer only shades away from his wartime occupation and that was unacceptable in his eyes. At least during the war he had a purpose for his actions, a justification higher than anything he could ever imagine awarding the government.

He walked all night, clenching the wad of cash he made earlier in the evening in his pocket, contemplating his next move. After his IA chewed over every facet of the problem and he calculated the probability of every outcome he could imagine, he was left with only one conclusion and he found himself taking his own advice. He once told Matt that he couldn't keep sitting on the fence regarding his involvement in the war, that he had to do something even if it was the wrong thing. Even though it felt very wrong on every level, at 4:42am he sent Peter a text message through Rebel's secret network.

MAKE YOUR CALL.


	3. Help Wanted

**Chapter 3- Help Wanted**

Damian adjusted his glasses nervously and it felt like his first day in Senator Petrelli's office all over again although he had been promoted from his dreary intern job to a colleague in the Chimera project. He still didn't need his glasses and as a rule he didn't wear them after Sylar's embarrassing palm reading trick in Maria's basement, so he wasn't even sure why the hell he had them on in the first place, but he clung to them like a safety blanket perhaps simply out of habit. If anything, the Senator's popularity had grown since the night he offered up his public mea culpa and there were rumors of him possibly seeking the nation's highest office although he hadn't publicly thrown his hat in the ring yet. Even after being personally trained by a Jedi Master in how to use his ability, Damian couldn't help but feel intimidated by being in the presence of such power.

Nathan sat in his plush leather chair and grinned knowingly at his former charge, easily reading him like one of the morning reports he used to bring. The last time Damian had occupied the chair opposite his desk it was after "Sylar's Raid" as it had come to be known in history classrooms across the country as though he pulled off the entire feat singlehandedly. As he remembered, Damian's pants were around his ankles and he was bleeding profusely from the old gunshot wound in his thigh as Emma tried her best to do what she could to stop it. Although he healed reasonably well considering he had not received adequate medical treatment for days after his injuries, he still walked with a slight limp and Nathan felt marginally guilty for allowing him to be swept into the system in the first place. If he would have acted sooner, left one of his security personnel behind to guard him, or had him transferred to another hospital, or even found a private doctor willing to take cash under the table, things might have been different. In reality he knew he couldn't protect him any better than he did Peter and Claire at risk of blowing his own cover and it was a duplicity he had come to regrettably mentally justify. It was but one of many things that stained his conscience, each misdeed blending with the next into a muddled mass of indiscernible darkness that he could never hope to dispel despite his best intentions.

Damian's attention was drawn to a young brunette who timidly approached and asked him, "Would you like any coffee, Mr. Montgomery?" He immediately pegged her for one of the Senator's new interns and he couldn't help but involuntarily smile at the realization that not too long ago it was him making the offer to visitors to the office. It further sounded odd to be addressed by his surname as though it signified some measure of respect and influence just because he occupied a spot on the Senator's incredibly busy daily dance card. "Please," he politely accepted, "black." It made him feel a pang of bittersweet nostalgia for the days when his diet consisted almost solely of black coffee and office leftovers while spending many hours poring over the latest bill or report. He glanced around and the absence of muffins, sandwiches, or any sort of foodstuff told him that his time with his former mentor would be brief. His visit would not warrant donuts.

His successor gently nodded and apologetically turned to her boss. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can never remember how you like yours." She felt acutely embarrassed and she was well aware it was no way to start off her tenure. How could he trust her summarizations if she couldn't remember how he took his coffee?

"Blonde and 4 sugars." Damian blurted out before he even realized what he'd done.

Nathan grinned at him, surprised he would remember such a thing after so long. "What he said," he nodded toward his guest, "unless it's after 4 and then it's a shot of Bailey's."

Damian chuckled at his own guffaw, but saw no need in keeping up appearances. "Or he has a meeting with McCaskey in which case it's just a shot of whiskey straight up." He wasn't quite as in the loop as he used to be, but even he frequented the halls of power often enough to know that the veil of cooperation between Petrelli and McCaskey was a thin one. In reality, the competition between ideologies couldn't have been more fierce and Damian was well versed in exactly how quickly the winds of fortune could shift, so he among others were always just a little nervous that all they had worked for could be taken away at a moment's notice. It seemed that McCaskey's hopes of a purified society didn't die along with Sylar.

"So," Nathan smiled congenially after his employee took leave to fetch their cups of pick-me-up, "how's life been treating you since the war? I hear you've been doing great things over at the Chimera project."

"I try." He shyly demurred. In fact, he worked incredibly hard to try and improve the lives of specials by building on Maria's framework of attempting to knit together social safety nets of lodging, jobs, and healthcare for specials from those who were sympathetic until Nathan could officially line things up on his end. It was an unfortunate truth of politics that no matter their personal convictions, legislators were only going to publicly agree to what would get them reelected and not every part of the country was willing to hold hands and sing kumbaya. It was nothing so obvious as advocating for the chip program to be reestablished, but specials were kept in their place by quiet civil disobedience. They often languished in emergency rooms because doctors were conveniently too busy to see to them, job positions were miraculously filled by "better qualified" candidates, and evictions and foreclosures on the smallest of technicalities were all too common.

"I'm glad to see you've been able to find your place in the world despite having it turned upside down." He chuckled. "Last I remember you were a little uncertain about your future."

He gratefully accepted the steaming cup of caffeine from the intern and waited for her to exit before answering, "I think we all were." He wasn't sure how much information was safe to divulge- a habit left over from the days of the war when secrets as to plans and positions were worth more than gold and guarded even closer. "Still are in some ways." If being outed as a special wasn't risky enough, one never spoke of being an ex-rebel because too many people still viewed them as traitors and it only invited more trouble than they were originally in for.

Nathan hissed to cool his mouth from the coffee that was way too hot to drink, but he was pressed for time and had to cut to the chase. "I received a call from Peter," he informed him in a conspiratorially low tone, "it seems one of our long lost colleagues is ready to offer his services, but as you might imagine, this has to be handled with care."

Damian's eyebrows shot up in utter disbelief. "Really?" Although the message was coded, he was reasonably sure he knew exactly who they were talking about and it seemed bloody unlikely that he would want back in the game given his not so satisfactory experience and general distaste for federal operations. He couldn't claim to know Sylar very well, but he thought he made himself pretty clear on that subject.

"Yes, and he naturally has some reservations about it. He made it clear that he is retired from his old…" he paused to reflect on how unfortunate yet accurate the word was, "occupation. That makes things infinitely more difficult because it would be much easier to find a position for him as a problem solver." Indeed, Sylar was almost as adept at solving pesky problems as he was creating them and the government would sell their souls for a man with his set of skills and a willingness for foreign travel. But Sylar was no longer an assassin and the government had no soul to sell, so it was a moot point. "But that's where you come in."

The sense of dread couldn't be more evident in his voice as the realization sunk in. "You want me to find him a job." None of the contacts he had could offer the caliber of work Sylar was capable of and he just knew the former General of the revolution wouldn't be content grunting it out in a factory somewhere nor was he really the public relations type even though the project could never have enough PR to try and promote harmony and advocate for even the most basic social justice. He pitched his glasses onto Nathan's desk with a heavy sigh as he buried his face in his hands at the monumental task.

"I know, right?" Nathan smirked, obviously glad to pass the task onto someone else. His job wasn't pretty, but it did have perks. It was good to be king. "Well, the nice thing about him is that if he hates the job you gave him, he'll just wander off into the darkness before you ever even know he left. He's not exactly a 2 week notice kind of guy but if he can tolerate the work, you'll never find anyone better." He would know. Sylar was the best employee he ever had to save Claire from the facility and take over wartime operations as well as fall on his own sword when the time came. They just didn't make them like that anymore.

Damian looked up with hopeless filled eyes. "It's not his leaving that bothers me. It's his return after the fact to tell you personally that you suck that worries me." Damian heard about the Jessups- it was almost part of company lore not to mention historical cannon for the war propaganda machine that was meant to prove what a heartless bastard Sylar was to torture 2 supposedly helpless humans, but it wasn't entirely a lie and he knew it. No one bothered to dig into the details to discover why he was motivated to do what he did, but that was beside the point. Sylar had a reputation for showing up out of the blue to make what he determined to be the rest of your life a living hell before killing you for wronging him. It was money in the bank that if he went to the trouble of finding you, he damn sure was going to make it worth his while. He could kill you 6 ways until Sunday and was smart enough to think of a few more while he was at it. That was a fate Damian wished to avoid at all cost and simply put: failure was not an option. "How long do I have?" He asked miserably resigned. He couldn't tell Sylar no and he sure as hell couldn't tell Nathan no. Both men had the ability to crush him like a bug either physically or career wise.

"From what I understand, he's in town." He hastily replied, glancing at his gold watch. It seemed he never had enough time in the day to fully deal with anything. His life was a constant stream of unfinished business, unsaid intentions, and loose ends and that was not likely to change if he was looking toward a promotion. "I'm guessing you know how to find him?" He asked expectantly, clearly indicating that he had to be elsewhere and that perhaps his question was meant to be rhetorical.

"I…" Damian stammered, his blue eyes squinting in an effort to crack the code. He got that it wasn't prudent to speak out loud, but he didn't want to drop the ball on a personal request of such magnitude either.

With a sideways glance toward the staffroom to keep a watchful eye for his intern, he mouthed 'Rebel' so subtly it would have made a ventriloquist proud. He gave a tight nod when he saw the proverbial light bulb go off in his guest's head and continued on like nothing ever happened. "I do apologize for the brief meeting," he announced in a more formal tone for the benefit of his intern who he knew was probably eavesdropping, "but I have a very important vote on the floor in 10 minutes. Please," he smiled congenially while standing to extend his hand for a final goodbye, "stop by again. Call ahead and have my secretary set up a lunch. You pick the place, my treat."

A wicked smile graced Damian's face as he retrieved his discarded glasses and folded them up to place in his shirt pocket. "How about the steakhouse we went to when I worked here?" Although he was making more money that he did then, the eatery was still steep enough to be considered a special occasion kind of place- or the place to go if your former boss was footing the bill.

Nathan laughed easily as he walked Damian to the door. "You have fine taste as well as audacity, but ambition will serve you well." Almost as an afterthought, he paused and playfully asked, "You still live in New York, right?"

Damian stopped a short distance down the hall and cast back a puzzled glance. "Technically, yes. Why?" After what happened to him he didn't have the desire to live in DC even if he could now afford to live in a slightly better neighborhood. He found Brooklyn a more familiar if not entirely safer option even if his commute was considerably longer. In reality he spent most of his time in government subsidized housing in nearby Virginia, but that was true of a lot of federal employees. It really was nothing more than a timeshare with no view or beach and he only made it back to New York often enough to pay his rent and sort through the pile of mail that had accumulated in his absence.

With a sly grin Nathan reminded, "It's reelection time. Vote early and often."

He nodded in understanding and chuckled to think that his vote could be bought with a nice steak dinner. A few years ago that might have been the case, but he was wise to the game and knew how to better gauge the worth of his assets. He figured he could at least hold out for a nice bottle of wine to go with it and perhaps even leverage a desert, but likely not because Nathan was almost certain to steamroll anyone foolish enough to run against him without even campaigning, so he was lucky if his vote was worth a pack of Skittles.

At 27 he was already wise beyond his years and he hated to admit it, but being in the fast lane of politics had made him somewhat cynical to the entire process. He didn't like how the game was played, but if he couldn't change the way business was done he was determined to smile when it was required, pick and choose his allies carefully, and always try to stay one step ahead of it all if any of it would help other specials who could not speak up for themselves or work the system the way he could. He could feel himself sliding down the slippery slope of moral and ethical ambiguity one meeting at a time and the only way he could sleep at night was to tell himself that it was all for the greater good, that it would all even out if he could affect real change in the lives of others. Now he had the opportunity to do that very thing for one person who he knew deserved a helping hand, but as his footsteps echoed off the marble floors of the Senate he felt his heart sink deep into the pit of his stomach because he didn't have the first clue where to even start. He simply didn't have the political capital or influential sway needed to do Sylar justice and if feeling slightly tainted in the pursuit of basic equality wasn't bad enough, knowing he let down what he considered a war hero was crushing. Sylar was deserving of the very best for sacrificing himself, of that there was no question, but he didn't have a clue on how to deliver other than to do his very best and hope it would work out somehow- or hope that Sylar would understand if it didn't and not cut his head open even though he already had his ability.


	4. Surprise!

**Chapter 4- Surprise!**

West just couldn't help it. He tried to look nonchalant as he shuffled through the papers on his desk and act as though it was nothing special to see the man he killed standing a few feet away, but he just couldn't keep the sense of shock and awe from showing on his face. Word eventually got around that Sylar wasn't really dead and he personally felt a sense of guarded relief to know that his conscience was clear of murder, but he also felt more than just a little resentment at being toyed with even though he fully understood why it had to be done. It was hard for him, Claire, and everyone else to accept that they had executed the one man that had given them freedom, but there he was in all his menacing glory just as if none of it had ever happened and he didn't quite know how to feel about it. It was one thing to hear a lion was loose at the zoo, but quite another to find it staring directly at you from across the room.

Luke, if he had any common sense, didn't show it. "What's this?" He asked cockily, "Bring your terrorist to work day?"

Peter turned to give him a sharp, disapproving look before Sylar decided to handle the situation himself. It was ever so subtle, but Peter could tell that he was uneasy about being in the belly of the beast as it were and it took quite a bit of convincing to get him there in the first place. He didn't need Luke's poorly-timed humor to strain things even more. "I'd watch it if I were you," he casually warned, "he might end up being your boss."

"Great," he grumbled, rolling his eyes, "as if Noah wasn't bad enough." HRG was nothing if not ruthlessly efficient and he expected nothing less from his staff. Things were done by the book- more or less- and he in no way tolerated screw ups in his department. Luke had been reprimanded more times than anyone in recent memory and he dare not ask for days off. It wasn't that he didn't have it coming, he just never quite got up the courage to go into his office and actually ask.

"I heard that." Noah coldly smiled as he emerged from an adjacent room with a stack of files in hand to toss on his insubordinate charge's desk with a substantial thud. "That's the latest round of admissions. I want them cleared and processed by this afternoon at the latest." He declared with a smug air of authority. True, he did bust Luke's chops a little more than everyone else, but it was for his own good and the sooner he realized that protocol was in place for a damn good reason the better.

Luke eyed the pile of ancient paper charts on his desk with loathing. Why the Company Man insisted on using manila folders stuffed full of tattered pictures and papers rather than the far more convenient computer records was well beyond his comprehension. He got the sneaking suspicion that his boss didn't have a Facebook page and wouldn't know the difference between a tweet and a poke. "Where's Claire?" He whined. It was usually her job to process intakes before passing them along to Peter or Emma for medical screening while he, Luke, and Matt saw to the day-to-day schedule of showers, legal consults, meals, and conflict resolution that inevitably arose from those detained no matter how well they were treated. Things may have been different from the old days of draconian Level 5's, but the simple truth was they weren't there because they jaywalked- only the worst of the worst were part of the system now and they had to be dealt with. Preferably cooperatively, but they were all equipped with S2 should the need arise and it did on more occasions than they were comfortable with.

"On a tour with Matt." He answered shortly before turning to Peter. "Will you be available this afternoon for exams?" It was fairly clear that he expected the answer to be yes because he did not like specials languishing under his watch. Not only was it a safety concern, but it also tap danced on the edge of legality the longer they were held without being informed of why they were there and given the option of legal representation. They might not have had any fast or sure legal rights after that, but it was a work in progress. He glanced at Sylar, apparently not even remotely surprised that he would just appear out of nowhere in a government detainment facility, and truthfully he didn't care why he was there so long as Peter was watching him and he wasn't destroying the place out of sheer habit or nostalgia. He could only imagine Peter teleported him there as a means of getting past security, but the energy between the former rivals was calm because they no longer had anything to fear from one another. Any tension that lingered was simply out of reflex. They weren't ready to hug one another, but a quiet and mutual respect had replaced the high strung cat and mouse that had previously ruled the day.

"I…" Peter stammered glancing apologetically at Sylar, "I sorta had other plans." He wasn't comfortable leaving his guest unattended where god only knew what could happen- either by accident or design. Not that Sylar couldn't more than handle himself should the need arise, but he knew that his methods of doing so would be less than inconspicuous. To put him in that position would also be an infraction of the tenuous trust that existed between them and a serious relapse of what Peter viewed as Sylar's path to redemption. There was a difference in killing out of self-defense and doing it to gain an ability, but he strongly preferred he not kill anyone for any reason.

"He doesn't need a babysitter, Peter." Noah sighed in exasperation. "But those detainees do need medical clearance." He could tell that the empath was clearly torn between what he saw as equally pressing duties and he didn't want to seem overbearing because in reality Peter didn't work directly for him, so he thought it best to soften his stance a bit. Peter was one bridge he didn't want to risk burning because he had proven himself to be incredibly useful in the past. "Look," he mumbled leaning in close to keep the number of those in the know to a minimum, "I'm kind of in a tough spot here. The Topeka facility is on temporary shut-down for less than stellar customer service and the majority were transferred here. Most were direct relocations, but they had a backlog the length of the Mississippi of admissions. Some are at least 3 months old." Peter raised his eyebrows incredulously at the thought of being held for 3 months without being told why. He wasn't a lawyer, but even he suspected the practice might have been questionable. Noah knew he could count on Peter's sense of duty to get what he wanted and he didn't feel even slightly guilty for capitalizing on it. "I would appreciate any help you could offer. If we could even get a few off the books, it would look like we were trying our best to clean up the mess." He could tell that he wasn't completely won over, so he put his final card into play with a resigned tone. "You can take him with you if you want. Just make sure he stays incognito."

"I'm right here." Sylar snarked. "You don't have to talk about me like I'm invisible. And while you're at it, maybe you could ask me if I even want to go. Maybe I don't want to tag along like I'm on some school field trip."

Any comfort that may have existed between them had reignited into a cool conflagration as Noah stood up straight and sized up his former prey with calculating eyes. "You may not be happy with the cards you were dealt, but you have to play them and this is not the time or place to go all in. You've been away for awhile and I suggest you lay low until you get up to speed." There was more than just a little condescension in his voice and he let a tiny little smug smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the murderous glare Sylar wore at being put in his place.

West ventured a shocked glance at Luke and contemplated ducking under his desk to avoid the bloodbath that was sure to follow, but Peter intervened and took control of the situation before the entire place looked like the set of a horror film. "Hey," he calmly said, gently pulling Sylar's attention away from Noah with a light tap on the arm, "things are different than you remember. If you want to, you can hang out with me and see for yourself." Typical of Peter, he framed his invitation as a choice to allow both parties to save face even though the odds were clearly in Noah's favor. He knew Sylar wouldn't tolerate being disrespected, but he also knew that Noah had a department to run. The fire subsided slightly in his eyes although he was still clearly irritated, and it reminded him of all the times when Sylar tried so hard to suppress his emotional reaction to events around him and project a sense of cold serenity even when he was a nervous wreck on the inside. This was another one of those occasions when he struggled to keep it together and fight his instincts but it gave Peter hope that maybe Gabriel wasn't dead after all.

"I'm not handing you gauze or scalpels." He warned in a low tone. He was no damn scrub nurse. In fact, he'd never tended to anyone aside from himself on very rare occasions and he had no desire to be soaked in anyone else's blood. He'd seen enough of that in his lifetime. But what drove his opposition more so than anything were the painful memories of his own detainment on Level 5 and while Peter insisted that those days were over, he was deeply skeptical and more than just a little anxious of what he would find.

Peter understood his reticence having been a guest himself, but he was anxious as well because although the wholesale torture of specials had long been prohibited, the neglect of the Topeka facility left him worried that protocol hadn't exactly been followed and it might look bad for everyone. "I'm a nurse, not a surgeon." He smirked in an effort to lighten the mood and ease the tension as he turned to lead him toward the holding area where he would do a few examinations just to get Noah off his back. "I don't go around wielding scalpels like a light saber."

Sylar seemed to relax a little although he was perpetually on guard in some measure. "I seem to remember you slicing me up with one." He blandly challenged as he took note of the structure of the building as he passed. He couldn't help it, it was just habit and he didn't know when or if the information would come in handy.

Peter scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You don't remember anything." He laughed. "You were delirious. You didn't even react until I put the chest tube in and even then Maria could have held you down by herself for all the fight you put up."

A small part of him winced at the mention of her name and the vague sense of disappointment it caused, but he kept his tone even. "So you admit that you did perform surgery on me." In reality, the whole episode was nothing but a hazy blur of unformed memories and physical sensations, but in retrospect he could guess the order of events well enough to know what happened. It had no real value to him other than being an issue to tease Peter about and he felt it was just as good a time as any to cash in.

"Well…" Peter hesitated, sensing another of Sylar's logical traps about to spring, "technically, but it's not like I gave you a heart bypass or anything."

"Technicality or not, it still makes it so." He lightly reminded. He couldn't keep the smug grin off his face at how easy it all was.

"I hate you." Peter flatly stated. "You twist everything way out of proportion. I made one small cut, which I was qualified to do by the way, and you make it sound like I gave you an appendectomy with a chainsaw."

Sylar finally broke into a grin and chuckled. "Don't hate the player, Peter, hate the game."

He shook his head in exhaustion. There was just no winning and no real point in trying. "Whatever. Maybe I should have went to town on you with the scalpel at your autopsy instead of playing paparazzi. I couldn't have done any worse than Da…" He immediately stopped himself, but not before Sylar caught him. Suddenly he wished that Matt was there to erase the last 2 seconds of Sylar's memory.

The smile immediately disappeared from his face and he glared at Peter with a focused sense of knowing suspicion. "You were saying?" He prompted tersely, his dark eyes roiling with barely suppressed vengeance at being lied to.

Peter stopped at the door to the holding area and sighed deeply. "Some details had to be rearranged, but it all still obviously went according to plan, right?" He could tell by the stunned look on Sylar's face that it was entirely beside the point. Obviously the end did not justify the means in his mind. "Look, I have work to do. You can wear a surgical mask and come in or you can stand out here and watch, it's up to you." With that, he left Sylar standing in the hallway to make up his mind. He hoped that Sylar's drive for secrecy and desire to stay away from a room smelling of disinfectant and full of sharp medical instruments would be enough to compel him to remain where he was.

Sylar was not going to be deterred so easily and he immediately followed him into the sterile exam room, ignoring his own squeamishness about such places. "When were you going to tell me about the change in plans? When did you know about it?" He demanded, a little angry that he wasn't consulted about the details. It might have all come out in the wash, but there was just as good a chance that it could have screwed everything up.

"Never, and right before you were executed." He answered in a bored tone as he looked over the first patient's chart. He didn't see why Sylar was so hung up on minutiae that happened 3 years ago, but he glanced up just in time to see the way he froze and slowly looked around the room nervously as though he just realized where he was. "Dude," Peter called softly, "I had your back then and I got it now, ok? I wouldn't let anything happen to you. I know it's hard for you not to be a total control freak, but you have to trust people sometime." Sylar's eyes wavered for just a second before he apparently snapped out of whatever trance he was in and Peter didn't dare guess what he might have been seeing behind those dark eyes, but he knew he had to get him rooted in the here and now. "If you're going to stay, grab a mask."

He numbly glanced back at the box of blue and white paper masks hanging on the wall and contemplated his next move. Could he really stomach being in the room? Sure, he could push every vestige of his emotions out of his head as a matter of survival as he always had, but did he really want to? In times past he was forced to block out his surroundings to ignore the pain, to deny himself the hope and desire for mercy from his suffering, to keep himself from the despair of knowing that in the end it was all for nothing- that he was beyond redemption. But those were times when he had no other option. What would he do when the strong smell of astringent evoked flashbacks of being experimented on? What would he do when his eyes caught rivulets of scarlet blood flowing from flesh and it reminded him of how glorious it felt to acquire a new ability?

Peter watched as Sylar wordlessly turned and quietly exited the room, leaving only a vague sense of unease in his wake and he got the impression that he would not be rejoining him nor waiting in the hallway when he was done. He tossed the patient file onto the counter and as he pulled on a pair of latex exam gloves, he wondered if he did the right thing by bringing Sylar there at all.


	5. Claustrophobia

**Chapter 5- Claustrophobia **

"That was delightful." Claire sighed sarcastically as she leaned her head against the cool stainless steel wall of the elevator in exhaustion for the duration of the descent. One of the least favorite aspects of her job was to be front and center every time a new wave of accusations of mistreatment prompted an investigation of the facility. Each new bout of hysteria was followed by parading interested members of law enforcement and politics through the grounds so they could ask their repetitive questions and see for themselves that all was indeed well. Not one of the accusations had ever been verified, but still it put everyone one edge that the experiments of the past might have been reenacted and it was something they all worked incredibly hard to assure never took place again.

"Yeah, I mean I get it." Matt reluctantly agreed. "We both know that some pretty horrific things went down at your dad's company, but..." He stopped abruptly and felt a little ashamed at seeming so accusatory, as if any of it was her fault. "I mean, I know you had nothing to do with it, but.." Nothing he seemed to say was helping and he wondered if he should just get ahead of the game by keeping his mouth shut.

Claire giggled at his discomfort. "I know, but it wasn't like he owned Primatech. I'm not saying some of the things he did would earn the approval of Amnesty International, but let's not forget that your dad was in on it too. We kind of inherited a tangled mess and now we're all trying our best to get out of it."

"Is that what we're doing?" He asked rhetorically as he chuckled. "I was just in it for the gold watch after 25 years."

Claire smiled wistfully at his joke, but silently wondered how many of the pointless baubles she could possibly collect over her lifespan. She didn't know the answer, but it would probably be enough to melt down and make a house out of. At any rate, no one aside from Peter could possibly stand a chance at beating her attendance record. The two of them would exist well after there was no government around to work for, but it was not something she enjoyed thinking about because it had the tendency to make her every effort seem meaningless given the immensity of her longevity. One moment seemed no more important than the last or the next and she sometimes wondered how Sylar dealt with that realization since he was acutely aware of the passage of time perhaps more so than anyone else on the planet. She simply couldn't allow herself to fall prey to the overwhelming sense of futility that threatened to consume her the way it apparently had Sylar, so she kept it at bay the best she could by living in the moment and not thinking too far ahead.

The elevator stopped on the ground floor and her smile faltered just a bit when Damian looked up from his cellphone and gave her a brief, friendly nod. She couldn't help it, but at a glance he reminded her so much of Sylar that she could never stop the momentary impulse to be frightened and run. But every time she had to remind herself that her father's former intern was not Sylar and then came the guilt both for holding Damian responsible for atrocities in which he took no part, and for still holding old sins against Sylar when he had given so much to so many and yet she never got up the courage to check in on him since his execution. She always meant to, but it was just too awkward to simply pick up the phone and call and all too easy to allow herself to make excuses as to why she didn't have the time. When she heard he was potentially working as a stripper, it made things unbearably uncomfortable because she knew he would only do such a thing as a last means of survival and that alone made her sad, but she just couldn't make herself reach out to him because he was nothing if not stubbornly prideful and he always had a way of taking care of himself, as if that absolved her of any responsibility. It was petty and every time she laid eyes on Damian it reminded her of her own selfishness, making her glance miserably at the floor.

Damian quietly pushed the button for his desired floor and returned his attention to his phone, pondering what he had done to make Claire apparently loathe him as of late. They seemed to get along fine in his cell together, but something happened and now it was as if she could barely stand being in the same building with him, so there seemed little point in trying to make the usual small talk that people do when confined together in very small spaces. He stared blankly at the screen just to look busy, but internally he was trying to figure out the best way to complete his mission: to find Sylar. Nathan obviously couldn't give any better hints than to contact Rebel, and all Rebel gave him was the address of the detainment facility, which he found odd. Surely he wasn't being held against his will, but it seemed worthwhile to start with the underground holding cells and perhaps find Peter. If anyone knew the latest on the redeemer of the specials, it was him and if he didn't outright know where he was, he could probably point him in the right direction. Thankfully, whatever Claire's boggle was, Peter didn't share it because he was consistently pleasant to him even when he could plainly tell that his boss' brother was up to his eyeballs as it was and really didn't need one more person bugging him. He truly was nothing like Nathan as he had feared when he first found out the two were related, although to be fair, even Nathan wasn't like Nathan as he later found out. In fact, the whole convoluted mess made his head swim and the only thing that broke his concentration was the sound of Matt's inexplicable chuckling. Between Matt's cackling and Claire's bad vibes, it was probably the single most uncomfortable elevator ride he had ever taken aside from escorting Mohinder as his prisoner on their mission during the war.

As luck would have it they were all destined for the same floor, but when the elevator stopped to pick up another passenger, they came face to face with a very different type of destiny. Sylar barely blinked when he recognized his former comrades. The only thing that betrayed him was a small frown when Claire involuntarily gasped and Damian almost dropped his phone in sheer surprise. He by and large had nothing to say to them and had no intention of hanging around for idle chitchat. He had no particular destination in mind so long as it was away from the holding cells and all that reminded him of what he once was and all that he had lost in vain. The tense aura that surrounded him told them as much as he cautiously entered and casually leaned against the back wall next to Claire.

The feeling that a snake had found its way into the rat cage was inescapable, and Claire struggled to get over her shock at such a mind bogglingly random meeting by glancing over at him and trying to think of something to say, but coming up short. He looked down on her apparently equal parts amused and disgusted by her inability to form a coherent thought, but Matt was profoundly puzzled by her mental images of the former killer in a thong and bowtie which led to her bout of being tongue tied. He couldn't explain why Claire would think of him that way because as far as he knew, she more or less hated him and he couldn't fathom her wanting to see her former boogyman in any state of undress, let alone something so disturbingly sexual. It made him a bit squeamish to imagine it all himself and he wondered what West would think of the whole thing.

The only one in the steel box that was actually glad to see Sylar was Damian and he broke the thick tension with a relieved smile and a genuine, "I can't believe we met like this. I was actually looking for you."

Sylar took his dark eyes off floundering Claire and seemed to take a very keen interest in his protégé. "Were you?" He asked mildly interested. He felt something in himself go cold like having his psyche immersed in ice water, but the numbness was relaxing and almost euphoric because the cold logic soothed his mind and washed away the ambiguity of emotion and morality. There was no uncertainty, no hesitation, only clear purpose and direction.

There was something in Sylar's eyes that made Damian take a step back- a calculating, inescapable force that he had never quite seen as if he were trying to map and memorize every molecule of his body with the intention of ripping it all apart. It was overwhelming and downright terrifying. However, it was a look that Claire was very familiar with and she knew exactly where it came from. The last time she saw it, he was hovering over her while she lay helplessly on her coffee table. She moved to place herself protectively between the two men and she spoke as calmly as she could. "You already have his ability." She reasoned. "There's no cause to hurt him." She didn't know what Damian had done to trigger Sylar's power lust, but she had to do her best to prevent the bloodbath that would ensue if he got his way.

She was right that his interest didn't lie in Damian's ability, but she was incorrect to assume he had no reason to harm him. He lied to him and for that the hunger demanded justice be repaid tenfold, but if the compulsion for vengeance was strong, the thirst for new abilities was infinitely stronger. After a few tense seconds a small smirk twisted his full lips and in his low voice he asked, "Who said I wanted it? I have his," he towered over her and his smile grew even more wicked, "and I have yours. The only one I don't have," he paused to slowly turn to Matt, "is yours."

All things being equal Matt should have been intimidated by the threat, but things were not exactly equal and he raised his chin defiantly to meet the challenge. "And you aren't getting it, either 'cause I have a nice, sweet dose of S2 right here that will knock you right the hell out and you know it." Sylar's eyes flicked to the loaded weapon his hand rested on. "I can see what you're thinking." Matt laughed. "You're doing all the fancy math in your head wondering if you can get it before I can. Well, here's some additional things to consider: you have 2 other specials behind you who probably don't want to risk getting shot and losing their powers and maybe their lives, so they will probably do what they can to stop you. But even if they can't, I can use my ability to fuck up your head just long enough to give me the half a second I need to pull the trigger." He confidently stated. "So, do you still wanna see who's got the fastest draw in the tiny box?"

Sylar glared at him, but after he had done the calculations he decided it was a poor proposition and his mind once more grew heavy with the burden of a conscience. He could win, that was never in question, but in order to do so he would have to use Damian's power like an ability EMP and simultaneously take out everyone before collecting Matt's ability. But doing so would risk possibly killing Damian and/or Matt in the process because the amount of force needed to drop Claire alone would be overwhelming to anyone without the ability to regenerate and in the end, he couldn't justify it no matter how useful mind control might be. He struggled to pull the hunger back and be content with the realization that he could indeed win if he so desired, and that knowledge alone had to suffice. It did nothing to ease the relentless ache of desire, but it was another small victory in his fight to control his innate drive and each life he willfully spared gave him just a little more faith that he was not beyond hope.

Rather than gloat or antagonize as he did when Sylar was a slave, wounded and powerless, Matt took the high road and gave him a congratulatory nod, but otherwise kept his mouth shut. He knew he struggled to be a better person because he was there when Sylar allowed himself to be executed if it meant it would improve the lives of others and he knew for a fact that he could be a better man when he wasn't under the influence of whatever demon possessed him from time to time, it just required practice and patience. It didn't mean he wasn't going to keep the S2 handy just in case, but he was perhaps more willing to ride out the occasional storm than he might have been previously.

Claire could sense a definite shift in Sylar's vibe that went from murderous to slightly saddened and weary and it worried her. She didn't know what kind of a life he had after his ordeal, but she could guess it was less than pleasant and his battle scars were beginning to show. She owed him more, they all did, but she just didn't know where to begin because the last thing Sylar would ever tolerate was being patronized.

Thanks to Sylar, Damian had learned to control his ability with fairly good precision and he was reasonably confident that if he had no other option he could have sucked Sylar's energy dry in a heartbeat- long enough to buy them all some time- without harming anyone else. He was glad that Claire and Matt were able to talk some sense into him because no matter the necessity, it just wouldn't have felt right to use his ability against his former mentor even if he would have ultimately recovered without a scratch. Something just told him he wouldn't be as sanguine or forgiving about it all as Peter was. "So," he cleared his throat nervously to break the suffocating tension in the air, "are you sure you want to stay retired?"

The last vestiges of evil cleared from his deep brown eyes and he blinked slowly, almost sheepishly. "It's really more of a vacation than retirement," he quietly whispered, "but I want to try and enjoy it for as long as I can."

Damian gave him a solemn nod. "I promise to try my damndest to find something for you. Something so good and so you that you never want to come back from your vacation."

All his life, Sylar struggled to make his own way- to not depend on anyone because it only led to disappointment. He never asked anything of anyone and he didn't want others to think he needed them either because it might open the door to exploitation, but he didn't get that feeling from Damian. For once, someone wanted to help him based on his own merit and he didn't quite know how to react to such a gift with no obvious strings attached. The smallest of bittersweet smiles graced his lips although he was clearly skeptical. "We'll see."


End file.
